Because III
by Glimmer Girl
Summary: Third in the 'Because' vignette series. Obi-Wan ponders his feelings for Qui-Gon. *Slash*


Title: Because III  
Author: Glimmer Girl  
Archive: M_A, my page, anywhere else, sure, just ask please!   
Pairing: Obi-Wan/Qui-Gon  
Category: Vignette, Angst, POV  
Rating: PG  
Warning: follows TPM canon  
Spoilers: for TPM  
Feedback: Sure!! jediglim@aol.com  
Disclaimer: All of Star Wars belongs to George Lucas. Yep.  
Summary: Third in the 'Because' series. Obi-Wan musing on Qui-Gon. (Post-TPM)  
  
  
  
~ Because ~  
  
  
  
I don't want him.  
  
  
The line runs through my mind again, it's become familiar due to its frequency. I repeat the phrase to myself at times like this, as I stare into a half-empty teacup and my mind wanders. Well, perhaps wander is not the correct word. It knows exactly where it's going. My thoughts spin and swirl like the leaves in my cup, eventually coming to rest at the center.   
  
  
I don't want him. I can't.  
  
  
My master, Qui-Gon.  
  
  
The Temple is quiet now, it's still very early in the morning. A soft rain falls outside, but I cannot see or hear it; a heavy fog muffles both light and sound. If I didn't already know it was daybreak, I would assume it was still night. Dark, quiet, still. I can only hear the slosh of tea in my cup and the clatter as I place it down on the table.   
  
  
Sometimes I still look up and expect to see him there. The early morning was a time we spent together, if circumstances allowed. I don't remember it being so painfully quiet then.  
  
  
I do, however, remember his touch. The way he would rest one hand atop mine or play with the sleeve of my sleep tunic. Warm and light, his touch felt natural, as if there was nothing more real than sitting and drinking tea with my master, his hand on my wrist. His hands were strong, graceful, loving. I used to think I'd never see them shake with age or grow weak as the years passed.  
  
  
How achingly true that turned out to be.  
  
  
And I can still remember his eyes. How clear and bright they were upon first waking, how they smiled even when he tried to keep a straight face. Some mornings we would talk, but most of time we kept silent. An easy, comfortable silence that meant as much to me as the many conversations we had. I can remember that silence well.  
  
  
He would touch my hand and I would look up to meet his eyes. In my heart I felt the thousands of words he never said to me, the thousands of ways he never touched me. It was like having light course through your veins. Warm, fluid, clear light that gave you the confidence only those in love would understand. And I was in love. In love with life, light, the Force, and Qui-Gon.  
  
  
My own hands feel cold now and my eyes hurt; I should sleep more, I suppose. I dream about him sometimes. I feel his touch, see his eyes, again. But in my dreams I cannot remind myself that it's not real. I cannot convince myself that I cannot have him. I am not able to tell myself that I don't want him.  
  
  
I don't want. I don't. I. Don't. Want. Him.  
  
  
I don't want to feels his hands on my body, fingers stroking my hair, palms sliding down the front of my chest. I don't want him to hold me, comfort me, to be my strength in illness or pain. I don't want his hand on my shoulder. I don't want his arm around me as we sleep. I don't want his fingers tangled with mine as we walk through the corridors or watch the sunset.  
  
  
I don't want to see his eyes before I fall asleep. I don't want the reassurance, the love, the trust that shone in them. I don't want the weight of his gaze on me as I approach our bed at night or leave it in the morning. I don't want to see myself reflected in his eyes, knowing his image is in mine.   
  
  
I don't want to feel or see him ever again.   
  
  
I don't want him. Force, help me. Make me believe it.  
  
  
For I remember the last time I looked into his eyes and felt his touch. I saw the brightness fade and felt the warmth disappear.   
  
  
And I never, ever wanted that. I never wanted to see his eyes grow dim or feel his hands grow cold. But the Force granted me that which I did not want.  
  
  
If I can convince myself that I do not want him, perhaps I can convince the Force, too.  
  
  
I pick up my teacup and find that even that has grown too cold to warm my hands. Watching the tea leaves tumble and swirl once more, I dismiss all thought of Qui-Gon from my mind, I need to get on with my day. Before the leaves can settle at the bottom of my cup, I swallow done the cold, strong tea. One large, bitter mouthful. A dry, acrid taste that I can't get rid of remains at the back of my throat. Like the thought that always lingers in the back of my mind, like a choking sob that I can't let out.   
  
  
I don't want him.  
  
  
I don't want him.   
  
  
Because?  
  
  
Because...  
  
  
I just want him back.  
  
  
~ Finis ~   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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